


Detention

by aceholmes



Series: Johnlock Oneshots [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Potterlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceholmes/pseuds/aceholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really should stop getting into fights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detention

**Author's Note:**

> This might be my last update in a while because I've got science GCSEs coming up. Though it wouldn't be unlike me to think of some fluffy headcanon in the middle of my chemistry exam.  
> So I've started to read Harry Potter (well I'm half way through Order of the Phoenix) shamefully late, and although I'm already familiar with the universe I've just fallen in love with it. And I wanted to write teenlock anyway.  
> Apologies, it's short and random and written very late (again).  
> (Btw, it's Gyffindor!John and Ravenclaw!Sherlock. Sorry if you don't agree with the housing)

Hogwarts at night was Sherlock's second favourite place on Earth. Second only, of course, to the Gryffindor common room.

Tonight was crystalline; the winter clouds had been brushed away to make way for an otherworldly display of stars. John had said they reminded him silver lanterns, once, when he'd spent the night trying to teach him about the solar system.

It was hardly his fault he deleted everything he'd ever learn in Astronomy. It was just that some apparently very basic information might have gotten flushed out with it.

This was all he could see of outside, however, as he was peering out of the most useless slate of glass (it couldn't even be called a window), obscured by tatty old rags which hung by it's sides. The useless things weren't good enough to be functional curtains, but were still functional enough to get in his way.

Not unlike that twat that had gotten him detention.

He hadn't even been the one to attack first! He'd been provoked! Yet here he was, sat in some dingy classroom, being punished for doing the _right thing_ , writing lines for _hours_ , for Heaven's sake...

_....I must not jinx my classmates regardless of what they have said... I must not jinx my classmates regardless of what they have said... I must not jinx my classmates..._

'I think that'll be enough,' the voice of his teacher mumbled around a yawn. 'Have you learnt your lesson?'

'Not really, no.'

'Didn't think you would've.' she sighed. 'Well, just don't get that John Watson into trouble. He's a good boy.'

Sherlock nearly snickered. She clearly hadn't heard what he'd said about her behind her back. 

''Course.' he coughed, smirking.

'That's what I like to hear. Goodnight, Holmes.'

'Goodnight, Professor... erm,' he had to pause, because he'd failed to notice that he'd deleted her name. 'Goodnight.'

His slim figure slipped out of the door before she could notice.

Outside of the classroom, his lungs filled with relief, as well as bitter castle air, which was tainted by the stone walls and torch smoke. The corridor was a long tunnel, lit at the sides, but darkness was allowed to creep in where the light of the flames couldn't reach. Most of his peers would have shivered, despite that early summer buzz of gentle warmth that was seeping in in patches. They'd be afraid of the dark, or Peeves, or (and Sherlock swore furiously under his breath as he checked his watch and realised this) of being out after curfew. 

Although he was sure he'd be able to get out of any trouble he'd get into if he was caught, since he'd been in detention rather than somewhere snogging his boyfriend as he'd have liked to have been, he hurried on, listening out for the scrambling of claws over the cobbles which usually accompanied the breathy mumblings of Argus Filch.

'Diricawl.' he hissed at the painting outside John's common room, and the door swung lazy open. He just stepped inside before the canvas lady stretched a lazy arm and, letting out a discontented sigh, closed the door again before prompting falling back into her previous state of comatose.

'You're back early.' 

Sherlock hated it when John was like this.

The shorter boy was sat in his usual armchair, his feet stretched out to face the barren fireplace. In his hand, flopped over the arms of the chair, was a book; something Sherlock had seen John reading a thousand times but never quite understood.

'You're reading that Lord of the Rings thing again?' he inquired neutrally. 'Is that what's kept you up?'

'You're what's kept me up, you dick, and you bloody know it.'

'I'm sorry.'

'How was detention?' John asked, as Sherlock plopped down in the chair across from him.

'Dull, as per usual.'

'You didn't have to get into an argument over me. I can deal with people like Sally Donovan myself, you know.'

'I know, John, I just... I can't stand hearing them call you that.'

'A mudblood?' John pronounced the word so effortlessly, like it was nothing more than an adjective. 

Sherlock flinched.

'Yeah, that.' 

'It doesn't matter to me. I mean, the word at least doesn't bother me. It's not even possible to be born with mud in your veins- they could at least think of a more accurate insult.' 

The Ravenclaw chuckled, drinking in the dry grin on John's face, before it flickered and faded. 

'Listen, Sherlock. I love my family, Muggles or not, and I'm not ashamed of being Muggle-born. But one thing I am worried about, is you. You're going to get yourself in big trouble one day, and you can't do that. I don't want you to have to sit through all these detentions, or lose loads of points for your house, or maybe get suspended- hell, or even, or even get expelled! It isn't worth it.'

'But it _is_ worth it!' Sherlock found himself leant forward in his seat, brushing his hands through his hair until the black curls stood completely on end.

'Have you ever thought that maybe it's you who's bothered by being seen with a Mudblood?'

Sherlock froze, staring at John without even blinking. How could he even think that? How could he even think that he would care? And even if he shared the same ridiculous views as most other purebloods did, John would be the exception. He always would be. He could be a hag, for all he cared.

'I-John....' he spluttered. 'Of course not! No, I've never thought of it, because I never would be!'

'It's alright if you are. Well, it isn't. But I guess I sort of understand it.'

'You're an idiot, John Watson.' Sherlock gasped, standing up and covering the distance between him and John in one gigantic stride. 'I don't care. And even if I did care about blood purity, which obviously has no impact on a wizard or witch's magical skill so I wouldn't even be that bothered anyway, I'd still love you. You could be a Blast-Ended Skrewt and I'd still love you, though I can guarantee I'd show my affection in a slightly less... touchy-feely way.'

'Have you tried your potions out on me again?' John laughed, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him forward to sit on his lap, with his lank legs hanging over the arm of the chair.

'Not that I'm aware of, no.' he replied smoothly.

'Hm, good,' John sighed. 'I love you too.'

'Yes, it is a fairly vital part of being a couple. Although, I always thought a large part of it was the-'

'One more thing, though.'

Sherlock hummed, looking up at him adoringly.

'Go on.'

'Your brother doesn't like the whole Muggle-born thing. Are you sure your family would be happy with this?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Bloody Mycroft and his idiotic tests.

'Mycroft doesn't have a problem at all. Caring's beneath him. He was just testing us, that's all. Besides, if I kicked off, he could always write to Mummy and get me in trouble. He hasn't grown out of enjoying that yet; he probably never will.'

'So your family doesn't mind?'

'Not at all. Mummy'll love you no matter what, and my dad will just talk you to death if he finds out you're on the Quidditch team.'

John positively shone with glee.

'Really?'

'Yes, John. Really. Now stop worrying, it's entirely pointless.'

'Oh.' the sandy haired wizard began, drawing Sherlock closer to him. Sherlock didn't protest. 'I'll tell you what is worrying, though.'

'And that is?' 

'That the Ministry of Magic's offered a job to someone who still tells tales on his baby brother.'

'I'm not sure they'd see that as much of a problem; that's basically what the Ministry does anyway, isn't it?'

'Sherlock!' John hissed, trying to cover up a giggle. He was terrible at it. 'You can't say things like that!'

'Yes I can. I just did. There, nothing happened. I'm still intact and everything.'

'You're a moron sometimes.' John mumbled over a humongous yawn. His eyelids were beginning to droop, and his grip around Sherlock's waist had slackened.

'You're tired.'

'It's midnight, and I had Quidditch training.' he slurred sleepily, lifting this left arm from under Sherlock so that he could rub the sleepy dust out of his eyes.

'Let's get you to bed.'

'I don't, I don't need- where are you gonna sleep? You can't go back to your dorm now, it's too late.'

Heaving himself up, Sherlock smiled down upon his sleepy boyfriend.

'It's alright. I'm not tired.'

'Stay here, on this chair. Nobody'll be up early tomorrow, you can leave before then if you want,' he yawned again, 'and you need to sleep a bit.'

'It's only a small chair, John, and your leg-'

'Screw my leg.' John snorted, making grabbing motions in the air. 'I haven't seen much of you today anyway.'

'You are _so needy_.'

'I know. Come on.' 

Sherlock chuckled, pulling himself back into John's lap, the shoulder of his jumper cushioning his cheek. The soft wool smelt of sugar, parchment, and ink; lemon tart for pudding followed by at least three hours of homework.

'I really am sorry.' he said into the fabric, his words smothered by the thick fibres.

'It's alright.' John was dropping off now; Sherlock could feel his limbs loosen underneath him. 'Just don't get detention again. I missed you.'

Sherlock felt himself drifting off too, something he rarely experienced and was even less prone to admitting he enjoyed. And his lids fell, and his heartbeat steadied, as a dog-eared, yellowing, battered old copy of The Hobbit thumped to the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticism are always really lovely, you know that?


End file.
